Struggle

 Mind: It’s an illusion. 

Heart: I must believe.

Mind: You are confused.

Heart: I am forsaken.

Mind: You nearly vanished.

Heart: If We Do Not, I will wither.

Mind: If We Do, I won’t survive. 

Heart: Without you I am lost.

Mind:  With you I am extinguished.

August 25, 2017

Hear:  The symphony of midnight

Taste: The satiating sweet of a freshly liberated strawberry

Touch: The pulse of surrender

Smell:  The evening on the verge of autumn

See: The light of hope

 

the deep paralyzing hurt that swallows you whole, violates the being, questions every word, every memory, and searches for the precise moment you became the secret conversation.

 

Bounce and Beckon

 There was a baby bird in my driveway the other day.  It fell from the tree in front of my duplex.  When sitting at my computer, I could hear the little bird crying to its parent bird for food.  I watched out the window as the parent bird flew hither and yonder fetching particles of food to cram into the wide screaming mouth of its offspring.   From patch of grass to edge of nest, again and again that parent bird flew.  And that parent bird kept cramming that food into that never satiated wide screaming mouth.  That parent bird tirelessly, selflessly, feeds that wide screaming mouth.

 And then the baby fell.  That fallen baby, probably more an adolescent in bird age, with its disappearing down and half-feathered wings, fell from the tree and wandered to the driveway.  The parent bird, now bouncing from ground to wire, beckons the baby with rapid-fire twitter.  Mia, my cat, spies the baby bird.  Parent bird hovers below the wire screeching with puffed feathers. 

 “Mia, git…shoo... go.”   She does.

 Parent bird continues the bounce and beckon, inching closer to the woods.  Baby bird flexes his wings like a “big boy.”  He catches no air.  He has yet to take flight.  Bounce and beckon, bounce and beckon, bounce and beckon.  Baby bird reaches the back stoop and, wing over beak, climbs the first two steps.  Bounce and beckon, bounce and beckon, bounce and beckon.  Baby bird thoughtlessly follows the bounce and beckon of the parent.  Baby bird topples in the grass and over the rocks in his path and tumbles with that wide chirping mouth.  Baby bird wanders to a puddle and splashes his reflection with his “not so big boy” wings.  That parent bird bounces and beckons, tirelessly, selflessly leads that wide chirping mouth. 

My Lady Ophelia

My Lady Ophelia

  I’ve been thinking about the old days. Ya know, when the world turned 360 and Ophelia was putting in one hell of a fight.  She took a pretty good beat down on that last one.  Every so often I catch a glimpse of her, quiet, alone.  The thought of approaching her paralyzes me.   

 I loved her once, her spirit, her fire, her inevitable surrender.  Then, she shattered her truth with obsessive precision and bled on the fragments of her reflection.  The betrayal of hope is unyielding.

 Is it my need to be desired by another human being?  Is it the lingering fall out of our first moment? Is it the paralyzing fear that this is my very last chance to open my heart and accept the possibility of happiness? 

 She quelled the turbulent contemplations between doubt and desire

 her resolve to surrender for the promise of and quietude. 

10/01/14

 

Shall I surrender back into the hollow of my heart and forget about the possibility of joy, and life, and love?  

Shall I shutter my soul from the light of others?  

What is it that makes me a failure in human connection?  

How I wanted to embrace this hope, this chance at beauty and laughter. 

It is my failure that brings my pain. 

It is mine to embrace; 

it is mine to nurture. 

From here I shall retreat into my dark and empty existence. 

I extend my deepest gratitude to a fate that follows me and reminds me that I indeed have nothing to offer. 

From the depths of my being I relinquish my desire to do more than simply survive. 

I apologize only to myself for believing in that which I never deserved.

 

Shrouded in defeat, she abandoned my affections

she had faith and she believed. She believed she was truly worthy of the life she was dreaming.  She believed that each piece of the plan that fell exactly where and how she desired was a true indication that, yes, it was all meant to be.  After all, she surrendered it all over to the hands of fate and held on for the ride.

 

like Persephone, back to the other side of the world...

 

I didn’t know until I knew.  Maybe it was a blessing that I didn’t grow up wondering, questioning, struggling.  My sexuality was stunted anyway, so it’s probably a good thing.  I’m not saying I didn’t have the occasional thought, I did.  I only took my first boyfriend because my cousins were cool.  I became a wife because that’s what I was supposed to do.  My wandering thoughts of women were classified as healthy fantasy… although I never told anyone who mattered. 

Georgia Summer Morning

It was a Georgia summer morning. The grass was rough and pale from weeks without rain and Daddy had the lawn sprinklers running in the yard. She sat on the cement stoop, between trails of purple morning glories and watched crystal drops splatter to the thirsty ground as the water swayed left to right. Daddy stepped his pale, veined legs on to the stoop. "Don't even think about going in there,” he instructed as he walked into the house, letting the screen door bang closed behind him. With voracious longing, she sat while tiny puddles pooled in the sparkling grass. She scooted forward, bit-by-bit, stretching her legs and flip-flopped feet, in an attempt to capture the cooling mist.

Daddy prowled back and forth between the screen door and the kitchen, a visual reminder of the increasing heat. She reached forward with her arms and let the mist fall gently on tiny palms. She lifted her face to the air waiting for a breeze to blow some relief in her direction. After too much time of wanting, She looked over her shoulder to make sure Daddy was not standing at the door and She reached for the shiny green snake that stretched its way from the spigot at the front of the spackled peach house, to the beckoning sprinkler. Carefully, her arms pulled at the cool, moist hose, easing it closer, not too much, Daddy might notice, to her eager body. Quickly dropping the hose, She again stretched her body to capture the rainbowed mist. She cupped her hands and rubbed the trapped water along her face and neck. She leaned her head forward letting her braided hair absorb the soft rain. She sat on the stoop, in front of the screen door, between the purple morning glories, and imagined herself running back and forth with each wave of the falling water. She kicked her tiny legs as the mist shrouded her in a fine layer of white drops. On the last kick, her pink flip-flop flew into the air and she watched anxiously, as it landed in a puddle at the base of the silver sprinkler. She turned, wide-eyed, toward the screen door expecting Daddy’s harsh grin. He wasn’t there. She hunkered to her hands and knees and slowly crawled to the lawn, making sure to look back at the screen door with each movement, plucked her shoe from the grassy puddle, and raced back to her perch on the stoop. Her legs and hands were cool and wet from the trip to retrieve the pink flip-flop. She put the end of a now soaking braid in her mouth, sucked the wet tip, and wondered if She could get the flip-flop to land in the same spot. She kicked her legs with cautious excitement flinging her flip-flops everywhere except the desired spot under the sprinkler. Finally, She pulled the shoe from her foot and tossed it to the waiting puddle. Again, She crawled from the stoop, retrieved the shoe, and raced back. Again, She looked to the screen door, no Daddy. She repeated the process and with each trip, She lingered longer under the cooling rain of the silver sprinkler until She no longer looked over her shoulder for Daddy at the door. She put her hands over the tiny holes and felt the soft pressure between her fingers. She leaned her head over the silver-white streams and let the water flush the sweat from her wet braids. She didn’t hear the door slam but felt Daddy’s warm hand as it grabbed her arm and pulled her into the darkened house. Her wet feet slid across the hardwood floor as Daddy escorted her to the bedroom. He closed the door, turned toward her, and instructed in a deep, half-whispered voice, “Get out of those wet clothes.”

She pulled her shirt over her head and dropped it to the floor. Daddy watched, stone faced, and waited for her to remove her shorts. She sat on the cold floor and pealed the wet shorts from her purpling legs, never taking her eyes from Daddy’s chiseled face. She stood in only her flowered cotton panties, placed her shorts on top of the wet shirt, and waited for the next instruction.

“Everything.”

Afraid to move her eyes from his face, She pushed the waistband to her knees, stepped each leg out of the leg holes, and with her foot, pushed the pile of pink and white cotton toward the puddling pile of clothes on her bedroom floor. Daddy reached behind him and pulled a wire hanger from the closet door. He stepped past her shaking body and sat on the edge of the bed. “Come here.” His voiced boomed in the small room as he pointed to his lap. He yanked her chilly body across his blond legs. She closed her eyes and waited for the first sharp sting of the hanger across her naked behind. Tears escaped from behind her squeezed eyelids as each crack of the hanger planted pink blooms along her legs and bottom. After Daddy finished, he took the mangled hanger and opened the door to leave the room. Standing with arms crossed, right outside her door, was Mother. She took the hanger from his hand, laid a kiss at his cheek, and pulled the door shut leaving her naked and crying in the middle of her room. She pulled the wet braids from the tiny elastics and watched out the window as her pink flip-flops floated, upside down, in a puddle of water beneath the swaying silver sprinkler.

August 19, 2010

 The historic role of women...  Once upon a time it was the pride of a woman to be able to care for the children, run the home, and stand by her man.  Then the war happened and women discovered that by becoming the workforce while the men battled for their freedom to do so, they could stand by their men, care for the children, AND run the home.  How devastating it must have been… losing the freedom of silkless legs, dungarees, and unguarded conversation.  But we were proud.  We, the wives, the mothers, the daughters, we kept our country alive while our men, our sons, our brothers, rescued the weak.  We were grateful to have you home; you were grateful to be here.  You adorned us with automatic washers, electric carpet cleaners, and giant Wooden boxes that transported the whole wide world into our monochrome living rooms.  We were grateful for the gifts that lessened the load and gave us the time to read, and think, and recall what it was like when we were proud.   Then the war happened.

 

The progression of humanity...  One battle conquered by another…  One freedom traded for the next… Victory beseeching challenge.  Social change is good.  Without it women would still be property, Black Americans would still be on the back of the bus, and love would still be limited to that which exists between a man and a woman.    

 

 

Last Stop, Owensboro (Fiction)

Cecilia waited quietly in the corner for the loudspeaker to announce her departure. She reread the destination on her ninety-dollar Greyhound ticket and dug in her jacket pocket for a half-empty pack of Marlboros while thinking about checking for a corner store. The clock hanging on the wall read 8:17. She had 13 minutes before her bus started loading. The thought of quitting smoking came, and left as she decided against leaving her corner.

A stout woman shuffled by keeping in tow a young child who bounced question after question off his mother's tired back. I don't know sweetie. We'll see when we get there. She sighed half to him and half to her own uncertain future. A threesome of women across the smoke-tinged station, popped in and out of their seats like prairie dogs after a hard rain. The oldest of the three, paced before the younger girl dressed in jeans and a faded Rolling Stones t-shirt. The third woman, a blonde about Cecilia's age, repeatedly fingered her heavily highlighted hair with her left hand as she drifted between standing in the aisle and sitting between the two other women. A thin gold bracelet, matching the chain around her neck, slid up and down her wrist each time her hand rose to her temple. She didn't talk, only nodded, and passed between the aisle and the chair. Two uniform-clad sailors moved from in front of Cecilia. She scooted her backpack onto her shoulders and went to fill one of the vacated seats. From here, she could see the youngest of the three more clearly. The younger girl leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, pressing her eyes into the heels of her hands. Her tawny hair hung loose from a pink hair band. A heavily creased white envelope poked from the side pocket of her faded and dirty denim jacket. Every so often, she ran her left hand through her hair. The three women, not speaking, issued weary glances of dialogue from fatigue-trimmed eyes.

The speaker crackled out the boarding announcement. Cecilia checked her watch, 8:28. She picked up her backpack, fished the iPod from the front pocket, and made her way to the boarding gate of the Newark Greyhound Station. She fell in line behind a GI carrying an olive-drab duffel bag over his right shoulder, his name, Sgt. R. Collins stamped in block letters across the top. She followed as he climbed the steps of the bus and bumped and pardoned his way to the last row. Cecilia chose a seat on the left, two rows ahead of the soldier. The bus continued loading as she hit play on the iPod and pulled a small pillow from her pack. She propped her head against the window as the bus left the station and rolled its way through the city toward the nearest interstate. Cecilia slept in the steady hum of the moving bus as dusk unfolded across the distant horizon.

Denton, Ohio was no more than a half-forgotten memory. The diner parking lot held two Fords, a blue 77 Firebird, and a Kentucky bound Greyhound bus. Across the weed-choked field, the halo of a street lamp displayed a quiet, single-pump Mobile station that also served as Denton's post office. A small bus shelter ornamented the small lot, a faded sign reading, "Greyhound, leave the driving to us." The midnight air was sweetened with the scent of lilacs in full bloom. Cecilia made her way from the bus to the entryway of the sharply lit diner. An animated clatter of dishes and silverware echoed off the eggshell walls while hushed voices hovered in the air like swarming bees. A waitress, with a nametag that read, Alice, showed Cecilia to a booth and whisked away after the quick question, "Coffee?"

Cecilia pulled the Marlboros and a Zippo from her pocket and slid a cigarette from the pack, tapping the filter on the table while she scanned the room. She snapped the lighter to life and inhaled the umber smoke of the cigarette. Across the room, a little boy rolled his yellow Tonka across a table. His mother stared wide-eyed past her playing son to the parking lot beyond the door. A Virginia Slim rested between her nicotine stained fingers as she repetitively stirred and tapped the edge of a chipped white coffee cup with the silver spoon. The booth in front of Cecilia held three men with ball caps that read Snyder and Sons Excavating. Cigarette smoke circled between the three hard faces as they swabbed their yokes with cold, dry toast and called for Alice to refill their cups.

Alice delivered Cecilia's coffee and scribbled a breakfast order in her pad. She watched as the ample waitress swung her round hips toward the kitchen, slid the ticket through the order window, yelling for Ernie to get a move on. Cecilia crushed her cigarette into the ashtray and slid from the booth, retrieved her backpack from the space beneath the table, and made her way to the ladies' room where she dug a brush, some toiletries, and a clean shirt from the inside pocket of the backpack. She double-checked the door to make sure it was locked, stopped up the sink with a wad of paper towels, and turned the hot water on full. She dunked a bar of Ivory into the water and built enough lather to wash from the waist up. She used her dirty shirt to dry and replaced it with a dark blue Polo, folded the dirty shirt, and tucked it into a side pocket of her pack. She ran a brush through her hair and looked in the mirror. As she pulled her hair through a barrette, she debated whether she really earned the deep furrow between her brows. Her fingers touched the creases around her eyes, and though about dabbing on some make-up, then decided against it. She questioned her reflection while she lingered before the mirror then pulled the paper towels from the drain and used them to wipe the foam of toothpaste from the tiny porcelain sink.

Cecilia scooted into the booth, pushing her pack to the window just as Alice slid a plate of eggs and home fries to the table, refilled the coffee, emptied the ashtray, and hurried off to the next booth. Cecilia pulled a tattered journal from her pack, unwrapped the thick yellow rubber band, turned to the page marked with a wrinkled white envelope, and recorded the date, time, and town in the margins. She scooped forks of eggs and potatoes between writing comments about the last few days. Cecilia pulled the envelope from between the pages, examined the familiar handwriting, and unfolded the letter from within. She held it to her face and tried to breathe in a trace of Calvin, her big brother. Cecilia carefully folded the letter back into the envelope and closed it in the journal. She swallowed the last of the coffee and nodded toward Alice for the check.

Cecilia leaned against a lamppost smoking a cigarette while she waited to re-board the bus. She noticed a blue and gold tassel hanging from the mirror of the '77 Firebird, a set of pom-poms rested in the back window, remembering the dry crunch of fallen leaves as she and Calvin practiced tackling in the yard. Calvin's broad build and quick strength would tumble and stagger with laughter while Cecilia attempted to push him into a pile of raked leaves. Four years later, Cecilia stood in the parking lot waving good-bye while Calvin's bus disappeared into the distance. Every afternoon, Cecilia checked the mailbox hoping a letter from Calvin had arrived from boot camp. Every afternoon, Cecilia's mother, drenched in the stench of cheap scotch, would wait on the stoop poised, ready to fight.

Cecilia stamped out her cigarette, lifted her backpack to her shoulders, and climbed the steps of the bus. She made her way back to her seat and sighed with the thought of only nine hours between her and Owensboro. She retrieved the journal from her pack, unwrapped the rubber band, and examined the items taped in the pages. There was a picture of Calvin standing proud in full dress uniform in front of the JAG office in Ulm. A plane ticket from Colorado to New Orleans marked Cecilia's trip during Mardi Gras before Calvin shipped to Korea. A post card of the Pocono Mountains and a phone number at Tobyhanna Army Depot, "For the next time you visit," were tucked into the binding and secured with a paperclip. She flipped the pages until she came to a yellowed photo of her newlywed mother lounging near the pool at the Pink Flamingo in Atlantic City. Daddy was thirty-three when he did his tour in Vietnam. Cecilia traced her finger across the faded photo of her father, bare-chested and smiling from beneath the turtle shell helmet. Daddy's arms, the left tattooed with a Celtic cross, the names Calvin and Cecilia scripted on each side, were draped over the shoulders of two soldiers wearing green metal helmets and white t-shirts.

Cecilia pressed a kiss to her fingers and placed it on Daddy's picture. She carefully smoothed an aged newspaper clipping announcing her father's return. She glued one of his dog tags below the clipping. She could still feel the sting of a bugle spilling Taps into the crisp air. Affixed to the facing page was a yellow ribbon inscribed with the date, November 13, 1982, and a photo of Calvin standing in full uniform in front of his father's panel of The Vietnam Memorial. She turned her face toward the bus window almost hoping to catch a glimpse of his smile in the reflection as she fingered the corner of the white envelope marking her spot in the journal.

The first time she held it, it was lead. She stood over the kitchen table staring at the glairing white envelope. There was no address, only her name, Cecilia, written across the front in Calvin's unmistakable hand. She knew it was coming. 7:30 am Saturday morning, Cecilia received a phone call from PFC Phillip Roberts of the United States Army requesting verification of her physical address.
"I'm sorry, Ma'am, I'm not authorized to have that information," was the private's only response to Cecilia's increasingly hysterical requests as to why it was needed. She yanked the phone from the wall, pulled a chair to the front stoop, and waited for the black Lincoln with government plates to pull up her drive.

Cecilia stepped from the Greyhound to the parking lot of the Owensboro bus station and scanned the crowd for anyone who resembled family. In the distance, she spotted her Aunt Joan waving a purple scarf and woo-hooing, "Over here." Aunt Joan shambled her way through the emerging passengers and pulled Cecilia off to the side. The quick kiss to the cheek greeting was immediately followed by rapid-fire lists of arrangements and errands that needed attention while she popped the trunk and instructed Cecilia to stow her backpack. Cecilia lowered the lid of the trunk and turned toward the station, shut her eyes against the crowd, and saw Calvin waving from the window of an Army bound bus.

How to get to Heaven

Tumble down the first three steps.
Grope at the jacket hanging from the peg.
Lift the frosted bottle to your lips.

Go bathe in the murky midnight
Go fascinate the fiery seraph
Go navigate explosive incentive

You are there

With the iron aroma waft in the room
With the soft buttery sigh of sharp refutation
With the pin-prick sky just beyond your reach

This is the place where the slumber begins

To get to Heaven

Think of Egyptian cotton strangled between you
Think of red roses malicious in the Waterford vase
Think of the last whisper past plump parted lips

and?

Such a long absence,

this comfortable.

a moment

I thought,

(I believed),

in such a thing

"happy."

I know no destiny,

I make my own.

I know no hope,

I am only that

which I deserve.

I,

the fool,

believed.

I am here,

in this place,

in this job.

I,

the fool,

believed.

I am here,

in these walls,

in this silence,

in this

void

of touch.

I,

the fool,

believed.

I am here,

crumbled

on the floor

as the hum

of the fridge

overshadows

my entrance

Goodbye my almost lover...

Maybe it was the early darkness that wearied my mind
and trapped my vision in white-line fever. A Waffle House
2am seems appropriate for hot tea and a plate of
“scrambled, smothered, and capped.” They have a system.
The one named, Darlene, cracks eggs and snaps orders
with the same exhale. The cook moves with robotic jolts
as the brow-pierced waitress shouts
“throw down two browns, covered, smothered, and capped.”

As a little girl, I’d visit my Nana at the lunch counter
a Manhattan five and dime. I enjoyed her bouffant hair
and cigarette voice as she took food orders and hinged
them to the carousel ornamenting Joe’s kitchen window
Sometimes tapping a silver school bell between a bottle
of ketchup and a mayonnaise jar filled with pens and change.

I sat at the end of the counter on the cherry
red vinyl of a chrome-footed stool, drinking
a chocolate shake (extra whipped cream).
Perched on the seat in my Catholic school
jumper, spinning left to right, watching
Nana pour coffee into small white cups nestled
in small white saucers then hand me change
for another play of “Sugar Sugar” on the jukebox.

The seats at the Waffle House are plastic.

Tomorrow there’ll be a ribbon around my heart.
packed away in a tin box next to a yellowed
photo of a friend who fell from a tower
before she had wings. Teardrop tarnished words
of surety folded away, the tatters pressed
between pages like pink streets of fallen petals.

Words shall betray

I was still in college when it was rumored that several poems thought to be written by Emily Dickinson, quintessential American poet of the 19th century, were located in some deep forgotten place from many years ago.  These poems had no name to identify the author.  These poems were not found in Amherst, the beloved home of the prolific poet who authored over 1700 poems.  One may wonder how these unsigned poems could possibly be identified as Dickinson’s, especially since they were located nowhere near the home where she, in her later years, lived as a recluse. 

 Just as the masters of the art world can be identified by the strokes of the brush, the mingling of color, angles of light, writers can be identified by specific traits.  For example, Dickinson is noted for her unconventional broken rhyming, meter, and use of dashes and random capitalizations, as well as her creative use of metaphor and overall innovative style.  She was a deeply sensitive woman who questioned the puritanical background of her Calvinist family and soulfully explored her own spirituality, often in poignant, deeply personal poetry. 

 When teaching poetry, I explained to my students that every writer has a “code.”  Writing is an extremely intimate task and we tend to develop specific traits to our writing styles.  We develop tone and tenor.  We develop theme that, by intention or design, laces its way through our varied works.  We develop a vocabulary of words and phrases that illustrate not only the point of the writing but also the personality of the author.  Someone who pays attention and frequently reads from the same author will notice the nuances and quirks of a specific writer. 

 Yes, even here in internet land the identifying markers of an author can be identified… if you pay attention.  In addition to all the artsy stuff I mentioned above, there are markers of a person’s writing that are educational habits, regional dialects, cultural identifiers, degree of word choice, and things that are just plain different.  I have a friend who continuously misuses a word in her blogs.  It drives me insane but her background and region deem her grammatical homicide as the norm (I don’t point it out for two reasons.  1.  I ain’t the grammar police 2.  I  ain’t perfect).  Many of the younger writers use the “IM” language in their blogs…  “u’r goin 2 luv it…”  Some people misspell the same word or turn the same phrase.  I’m sure there are people out there who have identified some of my writing habits.  We all have them. 

 Now I come to the point (I know, it’s about time).  

 It’s not a big surprise to discover some of the folks here “ain’t zak-tly who dey say dey is.”  Hell, to a certain level we all embellish our tales a bit… we exaggerate the blue of the sky, we carry the blame of the world, we reject any blame at all… we deepen the pain, lighten the heart, shave a few pounds, add a few inches…  Nothing major, just thoughtful writing.  Without question, nothing aimed at harming another. 

 Well, some folks like to take it to another level.  Some folks take it to a level of deceit and manipulation.  Some folks take it to the level of pain.  Some folks will spend time gaining your friendship, giving you guidance, offering support while snickering beyond the binary code of this cyber place. 

 Some folks don’t know that I am a student of writing.  I study; I watch; I learn; I notice. 

view from a snow globe

through the glass, a person jogs

fido’s leash dangling from the right wrist

a wadded Wal-Mart bag stuffed in the back pocket

 

a car stops; a girl emerges and skates her skirted hips

to an oak door with a brass knocker.  the amber light

of a foyer slants its way to the night… a beam of sun

through a dusty room.  the door closes; the car leaves. 

 

night falls with heaven’s pasture beyond the dome

of reach.  the vacant, quiet of the house echoing

the cost of journeys with lackluster endings 

 

When we no longer wake

 When we no longer wake

And when we no longer wake to share the rise of dawn

when home is the last place we want to be

when we become the reason we can’t

a fleeting thought

 

let us walk away - hearts intact

allow it time to heal

remember the friends we were

cherish the passion we learned

 

when eyes no longer linger on the contour of our lips

and they no longer languish for a kiss

when we neglect a touch

before we drown in silence

 

let us walk away - trust intact

allow it time to breathe

love never dies of natural cause

always homicide.

The flight of laughter

 

The flight of laughter

 

Standing at the bedroom window

the weather is warm and inviting

to the laughter of the neighborhood

children riding bikes down the hill

and back again.

 

I could fly with the laughter

feel free ,feel light, be safe.

I could but for the thousand

reasons huddled in my gut

scurrying their unclean legs

skittering, skittering

 

Tethered to the earth

the hard brown winter ground

confused by the warmth

and the sun

and the bikes riding along

the edges of forced spring.

 

I want to fly with the songbirds

through the boughs of pine

tangles of wire

Above the roofs

beyond the mountains

To the life

To the life

Where I am no longer

bound by the obligation

of being me.

 

15 January 2007

étude

étude 

music plays

through the hours.

I dance

the grasping cadence

until my hips mold each note

with sharp, controlled, movement.

 

euphoric

from dreamless nights,

I rotate

the knob of volume

until the room vibrates

with the deep, plunging bass.

 

provoking

a slow calculated beat,

I begin

the slight swing of hips

until it entices me,

with slowly parting knees.

 

breathing

through tangled tempos

I trace

the arch of my hips…

the bow of my waist…

the bloom of my breast…

the curve of my neck…

until my arms lift through the air

with translucent wings.

 

feeling

the profound timbre

of my own private euphony

until I reach

the carnivorous

recesses of desire.

Let Me

 Let Me

November 12, 2006

 

We and Miles under the

star-filled cover of night.  

Flamenco Sketches playing.  

ever has music filled me

Let me learn to touch,

to kiss, to breathe. 

Let me dance

paint across a canvas,

words across a page,

laughter across the night. 

Let me drown in

the taste of your mouth,

the touch of your breath,

the warmth of your hand

against the small of my back. 

Let’s dance on the shore

of the moon draped lake

with your fingers tangled

through my hair.  Pull

me closer in your arms

and let me.

Sketches

 Listen

do you hear it? 

Do you hear the sigh

as the sax swells and sweeps

through the amber-lit room?  

 

Do you feel the

increased volume

until the music drifts

through you with a chill?

alive, unexpected, electric 

 

Do you see why it blankets me

in slow, poignant alchemy? 

Listen to the piano confess

the pulse of the first kiss.

Listen to the curves of the horn,

as deliberate as a first touch.

Just listen

 

~*~Ophelia~*~

02 November 2006